


Lullaby

by underwater_owl



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur does so have an imagination, Gen, Heist, M/M, UST, barely even pre-slash really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underwater_owl/pseuds/underwater_owl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very brief story.  On a job with Eames, the music goes dead.  Arthur is yet again put in the position of having to improvise part of a complicated kick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby

Jobs sometimes don’t go as planned. 

This is a universal truth that everyone in the business understands. What makes a good Point Man is someone who you can trust not only to pare the number of unexpected surprises and fuck ups right down to a bare minimum, but also who can take a hitch in stride and get the job done and the crew out safe even when things are entirely off course. Arthur is the best at his job not only because of his talent for research and organization, but also because of a facility for pure improvisation. Part of the reason he learns everything about every situation from each possible angle is because he never knows what he’s going to have to use. What will it come down to, the next time the gravity goes out from under him and he has to improvise a kick (elevator shaft down the hall, blasting power of the explosives he’s using) or a mark turns out to be militarized (how to handle every kind of weapon likely to end up in his hands in someone else’s subconscious) or when he’s shot at and the equipment gets bullet holes in it.

It could have been worse, he decides, once he has the van doors closed and has time to take stock of the situation. Eames is unconscious, still dreaming, and doesn’t have any bullet holes in him. The mark is similarly intact, as is the PASIV, thank God for small mercies. The gunfire is receding into the distance, and the only casualty of their brush with the projections is the smallest, cheapest piece of technology in the car. The tape deck, that’s supposed to synchronize the kick.

It’s a funny little hitch to run into. He unbuckles, slips out of the drivers’ seat, and over the gearshift into the back.

They don’t have long until the projections catch up and he’s mindful of that, but the space in the vehicle is tight to negotiate, and the machinery is delicate. He pulls the headphones off Eames quickly, and settles astride his body, knees on either side of his sprawled legs, hand coming up to rest on his jaw, holding his head steady while he grips tight to the seat for balance.

He can feel the rasp of stubble under his fingertips, the pulse of the carotid under his thumb. He’s killed men before, just like this. Eames’ eyes flicker back and forth under his eyelids, as the dream he’s having rages violent down beneath them.

Arthur waits, keeping his breathing even, studying the face so close to his own until the sound of an orchestra fills the sky. The opening notes rumble, and this is the moment where he’d put the headset on Eames, start the music on their own.

He improvises, leans in, and starts quietly to sing;

“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien.”

It’s his business to know everything about a job, and he knows every word to the song, knows most of Edith Piaf’s discography, actually, and the history of the Algerian War and the attendant connection to the French Foreign Legion. He knows the direct translation of the lyrics into English and he knows the edited version Piaf sang when she performed in that language, he knows that the literal version didn’t fit the metre, but he sings in French because without the distinctive orchestra behind him he needs to stay as close to the original as possible in every way he can.

He sings close to Eames’ ear and low, because his range is better when his voice is quiet, and so he can manage the reach that’ll get his hand in range to grab the lever that will...

“Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait. Ni le mal, tout ça m'est bien égal.”

...drop. He feels the familiar lurch of his own world beginning, the tell tale moment as he begins to wake, so he moves. He yanks up the lever sharp and shoves forward with the other arm, so the seat back goes down as fast as possible and Eames topples over backwards with it, with Arthur still straddling his lap.

There is one moment, it seems to last forever but it’s less than two seconds down here and consequentially less than the blink of an eye up in the real world, where Eames’ eyes open and Arthur can’t look away, but before he can even think more than _blue_ the world dissolves, and he’s riding the kick up, out into a reality where there will be no need to ever talk about this again.


End file.
